


I Can't Conceal

by Eugara



Series: Fleetwood!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angel Dean, Angel Sam, Dubious Consent Due to Vessel Issues, Human Castiel, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying not to commit sacrilegious incest with your angel brother is a lot harder than it sounds. <em>Or:</em> Dean deals with some newfound frustrations and discovers the art of self-loving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Conceal

The Righteous Man is already otherwise occupied by the time Dean finally catches up with his brother. Some old friend of the family, a Bobby Singer, was somehow able to track him down first. Bright side is, at least the demon went scuttering away at the other human’s appearance. Slipping out of the motel with a seductive smile and a hastily thrown-together ruse to cover for their little _whatever it is_. Dean manages to nab her the second she makes it to the street, teleporting them to the Astoria’s closest back alley before she can slither away again.

“Busy night?” Dean hisses like acid as soon as she seems to realize where they are. As soon as she seems to realize _what_ they are. Sam crosses his arms over his chest and glares at her over Dean’s shoulder.

“Well, hey there, boys,” she purrs lowly. “I thought the company policy was ‘hands off’.”

“What are you doing here, _demon?”_ Dean asks, raising his open palm in a clear threat. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t smite you here and now.”

She just snorts in amusement at his warning. Infuriatingly calm, and clearly unimpressed by his vessel’s whole Gordon Gekko vibe. Dean spares a useless second to bemoan the fact that Smith’s stupid suspenders are ruining a perfectly good intimidation. “We’re on the same team, baby,” the demon coos, flipping her dark curls behind her with an easy toss of her head. “Did your bosses not send you guys the memo?”

His brother bristles at his side. “Asmo—”

“ _Meg_ ,” she cuts him off abruptly. Then settles back against the brick wall with an overly casual grin. “At least, that’s what George Bailey in there knows me as. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Sam swallows hard before speaking. “ _Meg_ , then,” he says tightly. “What are you doing here? Castiel Novak is Heaven’s Righteous Man.”

Meg smirks up at them like a snake who’s just swallowed a rat. “That would be according to _you_ , Skippy.” Then she throws his brother a casual shrug. “My intel says different.”

“Your intel can go rot in the Pit for all of eternity,” Dean growls at her. “Oh wait,” he adds sarcastically, “my bad.”

Meg doesn’t back down. “No need to get nasty,” she says coolly, then looks up at both of them in turn from under her eyelashes. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“ _Can_ you?” Sam asks under his breath.

“If you two don’t want to play, then I’m outtie.” Meg pushes herself away from the wall and saunters toward the main street, but pauses mid-stride in order to glance at them over her shoulder. “Good luck keeping me away from Cas though,” she says assuredly. “Or, y’know, _vice-versa_.” Then she’s back out among the oblivious pedestrians before Dean can change his mind about the whole smiting thing.

“So, what now?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean just shakes his head. “We’ll have to wait until he’s stationary. Guess that leaves us with some time to…” The words die in his throat as he finally looks up and catches sight of the way Sam is leaning against the dimly lit wall. “…kill,” Dean finishes weakly. His brother is all long lines and firm muscle spread out in front of him. Arms casually threaded over his chest, his legs elegantly crossed at the ankle. Looking warm and alive and _human_. Especially in that ridiculous fucking polo shirt. Dean clears his throat and violently ignores the way his cock is suddenly straining the seams of his dress pants again. “We should regroup,” he says roughly, throat a little too dry. “The older guy’s taking him to see some psychic. We can catch up once he stops moving.”

“Or we could stay here.” Sam’s eyes are two glittering points of molten heat in the shadow of the building.

Dean swallows hard, fighting against the temptation willingly laid out before him like Christ in the desert. “The Righteous Man isn’t here anymore.”

“No, he isn’t.” Sam slowly unfolds himself to standing and takes a step closer. “Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks lowly.

“Talk about what?”

Sam doesn’t let him get away with an inch. “About what happened back at your vessel’s place,” he says starkly.

Dean just clenches his jaw. Doesn’t say a word.

His brother sighs in exasperation at the immature tactic. It used to let Dean win every single argument between them, from ‘who was a faster flyer’ to ‘which of their older siblings had the biggest stick up their ass’, once Sam would give up out of sheer frustration. That isn’t happening this time. “Dean, it _feels_ different.” Sam takes another step forward. “Touching you. Being near you. Hell, _everything_.” He locks their gazes. Accusatory. “And I know you felt it too.”

“It’s the human bodies, man,” Dean tries, mentally windmilling his arms so that he doesn’t tumble off the precipice that’s suddenly opened up behind him. “The little apes are all sex-crazed.”

Sam shakes his head. “That isn’t it and you know it.”

“ _Sam_ —”

“Dean, please,” he begs, close enough now that Dean can feel the whisper of breath ghost past his lips. Sam hovers, just the scantest millimeter between their parted mouths. Not going to push forward until Dean does first. Until Dean makes this decision for the both of them. And fuck, he’s only a stories-high incorporeal being made out of wavelengths of intent. How is he supposed to deny himself something he wants so much? It’s not like he’s _God_ or something.

But somehow, some way, Dean manages to find the strength. “We can’t,” he whispers brokenly. Sam makes a desperate noise. “Sammy, I’m serious. The first time was a fluke or whatever. This isn’t—” He lets out a sigh and shifts his head back. “This isn’t our mission.”

Sam tightens his fists where they’re tangled up in Dean’s shirtfront and presses in even closer. Wild and sinful. Not willing to force Dean into anything outright, but clearly intent on stacking the deck with everything he has. “Screw the mission,” he hisses quietly.

“You sound like Lucifer.”

That one shuts his brother up but good. Face pale and eyes wide as he stares down at him in open hurt. “Dean,” he starts, sounding like a wounded animal. One of those spindly, vulnerable ones—like a fawn or something. Like a newborn fawn caught in a fucking bear trap.

“You sound like the goddamn _Morningstar_ , Sam,” Dean repeats again. Then he shoves his brother off and turns away before Sam can come back with something horrific like, _“Well, I’m not saying I **agree** with him or anything, but you do have to admit he made a few salient points.”_

“Dean—” he tries again.

“I’ve got some shit to do,” Dean says, cutting Sam off before he can sway him any further. “You should, I don’t know,” he tosses a hand around, “do some research or something. We can meet back up once we get the Novak guy nailed down.”

He half expects Sam to put up more of a fight, but apparently that “Lucifer” comment knocked him solidly back on his ass. He just hangs his head and gives in, letting out a defeated huff of air. “How long you think?”

Dean very intentionally does not look at his brother, fixing his gaze on the opposite alley wall. “I don’t know. Why don’t you go hang around one of those libraries you like so much?” He taps at the side of his head. “I’ll give you a ring when I’m ready.”

“Yeah…okay,” Sam sighs eventually, grudging. “Just keep your frequency on, alright, man?”

Dean doesn’t look away from the wall. “Yeah, Sammy. ‘Course.” There’s another brief moment of silence, and then his brother is gone in a flutter of wings. And Dean can finally breathe again.

Okay, yeah. The whole ‘business to take care of’ thing was mostly him just scrambling for an excuse to avoid Sam’s tantalizing proximity, but it wasn’t complete horseshit. He _does_ have to do something about his appearance before they present themselves to the Righteous Man. It is a big deal, after all. The first angel-to-human contact in roughly two millennia. Last time one of their siblings had officially popped down here, the Roman Empire had still been in full swing. Dean chuckles at the distant memories. Augustus Caesar may have been a bit of a military nut, but _damn_ did he throw an interesting dinner party.

He reaches up a hand to tug at Smith’s collar, thinking over his options. Technically the party line is suits. ‘Presenting a unified air of professionalism’ and all that. Archangels’ orders. But Dean remembers the way that demon bitch had looked at him. There’s no way in hell—pun very definitely intended, thankyouverymuch—that he’s gonna spend who knows how long on Earth looking like some kind of pencil-pushing CPA. He’ll leave that to his brothers and sisters in the bullpen. Dean’s a soldier. A _warrior_. Captain of the goddamn garrison. His vessel is gonna be as badass and imposing as he is—and Smith’s collection of ‘power ties’ ain’t exactly cutting it.

It’s only the work of a millisecond to pop into a few clothing stores and grab a couple of things in his size. Tight black t-shirt. Loose flannel thrown over it, so it doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. The pair of perfectly worn-in, perfectly fitted, perfectly distressed jeans, he snags from a mechanic in Junction City. ( _Whatever_ , he’ll never even notice they’re gone.) The faded, brown leather jacket comes from a thrift shop in southern Kentucky. Dean lets up on Smith’s metabolism for a bit, speeding up the man’s hair follicles just long enough for a decently rugged five o’clock shadow before shutting them off again. And last—but definitely not least—is getting rid of the overly gelled, deep-parted helmet on top of the guy’s head that he insists on calling a ‘hairstyle’. Dean pops back to the loft in Ohio, magicking most of the product out, and then quickly arranges the remaining disaster into an array of artfully-tousled spikes. _There_ —he thinks smugly, catching a quick glance in Smith’s bathroom mirror. He looks fucking awesome.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam’s eyes widen infinitesimally when he catches sight of Dean, once they meet up a few hours later, and he can’t help but preen a little at the attention. Looks like the leather worked. Good to know. His brother is, of course, wearing a pristine suit and tie. Gray and red, respectively.

 _Suck-up_ —Dean thinks teasingly, and Sam fights back a smile once he receives the telepathic impression. Honestly though, he’d be more put out about it if the tight fabric didn’t happen to hug the curves of Sam’s ass so deliciously. _Sam’s **vessel’s** ass_ —Dean has to remind himself sharply. It’s a _vessel_ , not his brother.

They’re standing in front of a rickety old barn, care of a weak summoning spell, about ten or so miles out from that short-sighted psychic’s place. _Even **shorter** sighted now_ —Dean can’t help but think. Then he winces a little at his own terrible pun. Serves the woman right though. He’d tried to warn her. Sam clears his throat beside him in censure, and Dean gets his head back in the game. Castiel Novak had been the one to invoke their presence here—well, it was Singer, _technically_ , but Dean’s still counting it—which means that the human must actually be ready to talk. Fucking finally.

“You ready to head in?”

Dean nods at his brother, but something isn’t quite right here. Something’s _missing_. “Yeah, just give me a second,” he says absently, mulling over the problem in his head. Then he smiles as he suddenly realizes, flicking his wrist to send over a huge gust of violent wind, practically rattling the roof off the whole barn. The guy’s expecting an angel, after all. Heavenly wrath of God and whatnot. They can’t let him down by just strolling through the front door without any fuss. It would be _rude_. Sam doesn’t seem to feel the same way apparently, given the bitchface he gets tossed for his dramatics—and isn’t that an interesting look now that he’s got the human eyebrows to back it up. “What?” Dean smirks. “I’m _knocking_.”

Sam twitches almost imperceptibly at the sudden crash of glass from inside. “And the exploding lights?” he asks dryly.

“Showmanship.” Dean tosses his brother one last wink, then telepathically swings the wooden doors wide open.

They stride into the barn like John Wayne and Montgomery Clift from an old black-and-white, and if Dean puts a little more swagger in his step than usual, at least Sam doesn’t call him out on it. It’s all about the entrance anyway. Everybody knows that.

The two humans are planted defensively along the back wall, shotguns raised and ready as they gape at their advancing forms amid the sparking bulbs. Dean assumes the peashooters are more for show than anything else, but the Righteous Man actually surprises him by getting a shot off. The buckshot pierces straight through the left breast of his jacket, and Dean bites back a grimace of annoyance knowing that he’ll have to fix that later. It’s not a big deal or anything, but y’know, _effort_. Singer follows up with a quick blast to Sam’s right shoulder, and Dean has to try a _hell_ of a lot harder to not smite the guy on principle at the affront to his brother.

After a few more uselessly overdramatic discharges, the two humans seem to get it through their thick skulls that birdshot ain’t gonna do squat against a pair of angels, and Castiel carefully lowers the muzzle of his weapon. “Who are you?” he asks once Dean finally gets close enough for his words to be heard over the still-fritzing electricity, his tone caught somewhere between terror and awe

Dean fixes the guy with a smug look. Apparently, he can’t help himself. “I’m the one who grabbed hold of your scrawny ass and raised you from perdition. You’re _welcome_.”

“…Right,” Castiel says quietly, arm shifting behind his back. “Well, thank you for that.” The impending stab is telegraphed as all get-out, but Dean figures that seeing the futility of his own actions is probably gonna be the best way for this dude to learn his fucking lesson. It’s not like some human toothpick is gonna be able to put a dent in him, so let the guy wear himself out. Turns out Castiel keeps his knives sharp and the blade goes into his chest cleaner and deeper than Dean thought it would. Sam lets out an automatic wounded noise at the sight of it, but it doesn’t do him any more damage than the harmless shots from before. Dean pulls the pig sticker out just as smoothly as it went in and tosses it aside with a raise of his eyebrow.

Singer takes advantage of the momentary distraction to swing wide with the barrel of his shotgun, but Sam catches the motion in his peripheral vision, easily blocking the attack and putting the older man to sleep with a gentle press of his fingers.

“We need to talk, Cas,” Dean says, as Sam carefully eases the other man to the graffitied floor. “I’m gonna call you ‘Cas’. That cool?”

Cas doesn’t answer him, pushing past and kneeling down to check Singer’s pulse instead. Probably overwhelmed, bless his poor little monkey brain.

“Your friend’s alive,” Sam says softly, puppy-dog stare blasting at full force. He carefully holds his palms out in submission, looking like he’d rather be shivved with an angel blade than have the guy think that of him. “I wouldn’t hurt him. I promise.”

“Who are you?” Cas asks throatily, frantically flicking his gaze between the two of them.

Dean finally lets himself relax, happy that they’re through with the _stabbing_ part of the conversation. “Dean,” he says casually. Then he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side. “That’s my brother, Sammy.”

“ _Sam_ ,” the younger angel corrects him prissily. ‘Cause God forbid the human find out he has a nickname.

“I mean, _what_ are you?” Cas asks grimly, rising to his feet again.

Dean can feel the way the grin splits his face in two. He loves this part. “Why, buddy. We’re angels of the Lord.”

And _there’s_ the payoff. Cas’s eyes go wide in sheer incredulity. “Th-there’s no such thing,” he stutters.

Sam smiles warmly. “That’s gonna be a problem, Castiel. You need to have faith.” A flash of lightning cracks across the barn—Sam’s doing this time, not his—lighting the space up and throwing their wings into stark relief against the opposite wall. Well, the _shadow_ of their wings anyway. Dean spreads them out a little bit and tries to look impressive.

And it looks like it works, because Cas kind of stares slack-jawed at them for a moment or two. “And you’re…brothers?” he asks belatedly, apparently just catching on to the concept.

“All angels are siblings,” Dean says. “All that ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven’ crap, y’know?”

“But you look human.”

Sam lets out a tiny huff of breath through his nose as he politely tries not to laugh, but Dean doesn’t care enough to disguise his amused snort. “Well, you’re not actually gonna be able to see our true visages.” He waves a hand around. “It’s kind of a light spectrum thing. Your human senses are too dull to perceive them.”

Cas shifts backwards a little bit at his answer, and Dean wonders if he’s offended the guy. “And what _visage_ are you in now?” he snarks. “80s action hero?” He swings his gaze from Dean’s scuffed leather over to Sam’s suit. “Holy legal secretary?”

“Well fuck you too,” Dean tosses back sharply. “Plus, it’s not like you’re one to talk, Casablanca.” He jerks his head at the suitably dramatic trench coat hanging off the human’s shoulders. “You on your way to hand over some sensitive information in a parking garage?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses under his breath.

But Cas just twitches his hands involuntarily along the lapels. “It was my father’s,” he says quietly.

“Oh.” Dean blinks in immediate chagrin. He knows of John Novak. Of course he does. After all, he’s the reason for the deal that the Righteous Man had originally made. The one that had landed him on Alastair’s rack. His old man’s soul in Heaven in exchange for willingly taking his place in Hell. It’s why the first seal got broken in the first place, and Dean imagines it’s probably a sore spot for the guy. “Shit, man,” he says. “Sorry about that.” There’s an awkward silence that hangs over the three of them until Dean decides to speak again. “Anyway,” he says clumsily, “these are vessels.”

Cas’s brows draw down to a sharp point. “You’re possessing someone? Both of you?”

“Whoa, _hey_ now. Cool it with the ‘possession’ shit,” Dean snipes defensively. “We’re not _demons_ like your little girlfriend. These guys agreed to it. It’s not like we’re just going around snatching people off the streets.”

“They’re faithful men,” Sam explains a little more calmly. “They actually prayed for this.”

Cas sets his jaw, clearly assuaged by his brother’s explanation if not outright pleased by it. “And why would angels rescue me from Hell?”

“First off. That’d be _‘angel’_ ,” Dean points out stubbornly. “Singular. _Uno_.” He raises a solitary finger and wiggles it around until he’s sure the guy gets it. “Sammy here was lounging around on his ass while I did all the hard work.”

“ _Dean_ ,” his brother sighs again.

“And secondly,” he continues, expertly ignoring Sam’s whining, “good things have been known to happen, Cas.”

“Rarely, in my experience.”

Dean swallows back a lightning flash of hot guilt. He can’t reveal his mission. Can’t tell Cas the truth, even if he is the Righteous Man. Michael won’t allow it—too terrified that the human would balk if he knew what they had planned. “What’s a matter?” he asks, barely forcing himself to meet the man’s stare. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved?”

Cas searches his gaze at the simple reply. Dean’s not sure he has it in him to be more convincing. “Why did you do it?” he finally says, somehow placated by whatever he saw in Dean’s eyes.

“Because God commanded it,” Sam answers gently. “Because we have work for you.” There’s a moment of stillness as he lets the words land, and then his brother abruptly tilts his head to the side. He must be picking up a private call on Angel Radio. Cas squints in confusion at the sudden, unexplained gesture, but Dean spends most of his effort trying not to feel pissy about the fact that he’s being left out of whatever conversation his siblings are having. “It’s Uriel,” Sam finally says to him when he’s done chatting. He flicks his eyes to Cas, then back to Dean. “They need me back upstairs.”

“Upstairs as in _Heaven?”_ Cas asks skeptically.

Dean ignores him. “Just you?”

Sam nods, but at least he’s got the decency to look sheepish. “He says it’s important.”

“Yeah, fine,” Dean mutters. But he isn’t happy about it. “Go have fun. I’m sure Cas has about ten zillion more questions for me to answer anyways.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Sam says quietly. “I’ll catch up with you the second I’m free.” He leans in like he usually does whenever they’re about to part ways, ducking his head for a quick kiss—and then suddenly seems to realize what he’s doing about halfway there. Because, oh yeah, that whole _thing_. Sam stays frozen for a moment, looking at him like he’s about to back away and let it go, but Dean’s not cruel or petty enough to deprive his brother of affection entirely. After all, it ain’t _Sam’s_ fault that they’re both so fucked up over this. All they have to do is keep it G-rated. Dean can handle that. Just like they used to do it.

He lifts a hand to Sam’s face, pretending he can’t feel the curve of his smile under his palm, and then stretches up for a casual peck, mindful of their audience in a way he’s never had to think about before. But Sam snakes his tongue out against his lower lip the second their mouths meet—always pushing his boundaries, the little shit—and Dean can’t stop himself from groaning into the wickedly blissful touch. He should’ve known better. He should have guessed that his brother wouldn’t let this go so easily, but with the way he’s licking into his mouth and pressing back against his chest, Dean’s finding it really fucking hard to care. Sam lingers with one last curl of his tongue, then he blinks out of there the very next instant, leaving Dean alone and holding nothing more than air (and his metaphorical junk) in his hands.

He lets out an annoyed sigh—at both his brother’s willful insubordination _and_ his sudden departure—then turns around to catch the human he’d forgotten about eyeballing him like a circus freak. _“What?”_

“Do you…always say goodbye to your brother like that?”

“Why?” Dean snits, arching an eyebrow. “You feeling left out? He gives Cas a measured glance, then awkwardly crosses his arms over his chest. “Whatever, it’s an angel thing.”

Cas clears his throat and flicks his eyes down over Dean’s crotch. “And the erection?” he asks cautiously, like he’s nervous about the possible answer. “Is that an angel thing too?”

Self-consciousness prickles under his skin at the remark, and Dean sends a telekinetic shove right into the center of the human’s solar plexus, knocking him off balance for a few seconds while he wills his blood away from inconvenient places.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Cas grumbles once he’s got his feet underneath him, but Dean’s _issue_ is thankfully under control by the time the man’s eyes are back on his.

He shifts his stance around until he feels on an even keel again and finally meets the guy’s gaze. “So do you have questions or what?” he asks testily.

Cas raises a hand in morbid curiosity.

“ _Not_ about me and Sam,” Dean clarifies.

The human slowly lowers his arm back down.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

They both do their best to build up a rapport with Cas over the next several weeks. Popping in at random times, all buddy-buddy and _“Hey, let’s stop the seals from breaking.”_ Cas passes most of Michael’s tests by the skin of his teeth, fails a few others, but overall things seem to be moving forward at a decently paced clip.

He doesn’t trust them yet. Not completely. Which is fair enough, really. Dean wouldn’t either. The _problem_ here isn’t their human charge’s reluctance to fall in line, it’s the fact that Dean can’t seem to spend more than thirty seconds around his brother without wanting to jump his bones. Or his _vessel’s_ bones. Whatever. And Sam, for his part, is no freaking help at all ‘cause all he’s been doing is encouraging it. Shooting him little glances from under his eyelashes whenever Cas is focused on something else, lounging around on random pieces of furniture like a goddamn cocktease, pretending like he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing to Dean. Which, of course he does, because ‘Sam’ and ‘innocent’ are not two concepts that mesh together well at all. Never have been. Angel or no.

Dean’s taken to physically redirecting the blood flow away from his perpetually-erect dick at least once, if not twice, a day. But it keeps springing up, punctual as fucking clockwork, every time Sam’s in the immediate vicinity. Freaking annoying-as-shit human hormones. And the worst of it all is that he’s basically being forced into close proximity with his brother simply due to the fact that they’re both assigned to this Righteous Man thing—because Sam is, apparently, an evil genius. Dean’s running out of ideas, and his makeshift solution isn’t gonna hold water much longer, and the more time he spends with Sam the more he can feel himself tipping further and further into sin.

But even scarier than the disgraceful things he wants to do to his brother—and, oh boy, are there _so_ many disgraceful things he wants to do to his brother—are the less-damnable desires. The closer they get to each other in these human forms, the more Dean wants to protect him. To surround him. He wants to pull Sam inside his own body in order to keep him safe, which is just the most _ridiculous_ idea his brain has ever spat up.

Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes, looking out across the city lights from where he’s perched on the roof of some rundown motel. He’d ditched his partner-in-potential-heresy a few hours back, claiming that he was gonna try for some one-on-one time with Cas. Some slipshod excuse about the guy probably trusting them easier once he got to know them better as separate individuals. The whole thing’s complete bullshit, but hey, Dean’s gotta grab for every opportunity he can in order to stop himself from blaspheming all over the place. If distance is what it’ll take, then distance it is. Although, honestly? It doesn’t seem to be working much. His mind’s eye serves him up an image of Sam, smiling softly and glancing over at him in the familiar way he does, and Smith’s stupid, unmanageable penis rises to attention at just that fleeting glimpse of a thought. _Again_.

He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale through his nose, smothers his erection back down for the second time _today_ , and decides to visit Cas after all. He’s a human. Maybe he’ll know what to do about this stupid human problem. It’s not like Dean had to deal with any of this shit before he got shoved into the meatsuit.

Cas is pulling a chipped ceramic mug out from under the brewer of the motel’s ancient coffeemaker when he drops in. He thinks it’s probably a little late in the evening for that particular beverage—given from what he’s been able to pick up of human rituals over the years—but the guy does seem to be obsessed with the stuff. And who is Dean to fuck with some poor schmoe’s only coping mechanism? _His_ sure as hell hasn’t been working lately.

Dean waits until he’s almost turned around to go fully visible. “Heya, Cas.”

“Jesus Christ!” Cas shouts, spilling hot coffee over the lip of his mug and onto the already-stained carpeting. _Eh_ , it’s actually an improvement to the décor.

“Most people call me Dean,” he shoots back playfully. Then he tosses the human his best charming grin once he’s got his full attention. He’s been practicing it in the mirror. Smith has surprisingly nice teeth. “Need to ask you a favor, buddy.”

Cas just lets out an exhausted, put-upon sigh at the statement. “Dean, I’m sort of in the middle of—”

“I’ll be quick,” Dean promises, waving his concerns away. “It’s a—” He darts his eyes around, sweeping his senses out just to make sure they’re alone. This would be the absolute _worst_ time for Cas’s demonic little fuck-buddy to be tucked away in the coat closet or something. “It’s a _human_ question.”

That does seem to soften him up a bit, but his look is still more suspiciously wary than anything else. “Human in what way?”

“Human, like,” Dean tries to gesture down to his crotch using only his eyes and telepathic nudging, “ _human_.”

Cas yanks his head back in unease. “Dean, _no_. I don’t want to know anything at all about your…rather _unconventional_ relationship with your brother.”

Dean frantically grasps at the opening he’s been given. “But that’s exactly it, man. I was just gonna ask if there’s some way that you guys have come up with to deal with that kinda…” he winces a little as he struggles to come up with the appropriate word, “ _frustration_. Y’know, so nothing else happens.”

Cas opens his mouth to argue some more probably, leaves it hanging slack for about three and a half seconds, and then closes it again with another exasperated sigh. “Alright, just—” He glances around the room himself, an automatic gesture more than a functional one. “This isn’t exactly something that humans tend to share with their acquaintances,” he says, sounding more pained than anything else.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean replies easily. “Super hush-hush or whatever. I got it.” He waggles his fingers for him to continue. “Hit me up, Cas.”

His charge takes a deep breath, and then moves over to his laptop. “The internet is basically a cornucopia of pornographic material,” Cas explains stiffly, listlessly tapping at the keyboard. “You just type in whatever you’re looking for here in the search bar and, more likely than not, there will be a few dozen videos to choose from. At the very least.” He half-heartedly shows Dean a few sites, then immediately closes out of everything again. “You understand?” he asks awkwardly, waiting for Dean's subsequent nod. “Good. Now can we please forget this ever happened?”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean settles in among the motel sheets, scratchy against his bare skin, and centers the computer he’d swiped on his lap. He’s still got a few hours or so he could plausibly be spending with Cas before Sam gets suspicious, and therefore, intends on using up every last minute. It’s not like he’s gonna be able to eke out much alone time in the near future. Especially with the way Sam seems to be cranking up his clumsy seduction techniques with each passing day.

He’s heard of masturbation before, of course. Has seen it referenced offhand in movies and the like, so he’s pretty certain of the basic components. Laptop. Tinny, poor-quality videos of other humans having sexual intercourse. Manual stimulation of the genitals. One, two, three. Easy as pie. (Which, other than the never-ending sexual frustration, has turned out to be the second most glorious bane of Dean’s human existence. He’s surprised Smith looks the way he does, considering how his body seems to crave the stuff. Maybe the yearning for delicious food is a side-effect from all the insane dieting the guy put himself through.) Dean excitedly rubs his hands together, clicks through to the site that Cas had recited to him, and plunges in headfirst.

 _But_ …after a good hour or so of trying, human porn seems to be nothing more than a mostly fruitless exercise in futility.

Cas had mentioned a particular video about a pizza man and a babysitter (both of them had seemed pretty shitty at their jobs, if Dean’s being honest), but it hadn’t done much to stir his loins the way he was hoping it would. Apparently, his vessel has more of an inclination for the males of the species—ones better formed than the hirsute ape they’d cast to lug around the prop pizza box.

It’s ridiculous, really. This unmanageable dick hanging between his thighs. Necessary for procreation, Dean knows, but he can’t help but consider it more of a tactical weakness than anything else. Especially in battle. Hell, it’s practically a flashing target, all weak and vulnerable and dangling. He reaches down to get a hand around the soft weight of it and— _oh_. **_Oh_**. Well. That’s why humans are so constantly obsessed with touching the things. It feels…nice. It feels _really_ fucking nice, and Dean gives Smith’s cock a few more tentative pumps of his hand, watching in rapt curiosity as it slowly fills up erect. Okay, maybe he’s been going about this whole masturbation thing in the wrong order. Dean lets his fingers relax a bit, carefully teasing around the lip of the crown— _and **damn** does that feel good_ —and allows himself to linger over the organ in his hand.

It is fairly sizable, he supposes, for the average dude, warm and thick and flushed, but he’s not exactly sure why that’s something mankind would desire. Seems like it would be more of a hassle than not, trying to find a place that would fit something like this. _Females_ , sure, they’re pretty much built for it. But men? Strong, fit males like the ones Smith’s libido appears to favor… Dean rolls through his vessel’s memories looking for a clue. _Oh_. Humans have manufactured synthetic salves for just that purpose. The thing twitches in his palm again at just the thought, and he gives Smith’s engorged length another glance. Handy.

Dean swallows determinedly and tightens his grip, then sucks back a breath at the way lightning zings up his spine at the action. _Alright, then_. _Here we fucking go._

It’s a study in inches and measures, discovering the right way to stroke. To hold. To _touch_. The way Smith’s body, _Dean’s_ body, seems to respond to certain stimuli. The way certain thoughts and mental images can electrify the process. He imagines the humans rutting in their pornographic videos and twists his wrist, and thick arousal builds in the base of his testicles. He imagines Sam’s hand, even larger than his own and wrapped around his pulsing length, and has to bite back a cry of sheer pleasure. _No_ —he scolds himself. _Stop it_. The whole point of this ‘exercise’ was to get his mind off of his brother. He’s trying to replace his thoughts of Sam, not give him free reign over all his more sordid fantasies. Dean hunkers down and tries again. He closes his eyes and thinks about one of the men from the website. Strong and chiseled and oiled, his hips pumping as he fucked into his leading lady with sharp, forceful thrusts. His blond hair, close-cropped and bristled—brown hair sweeping lightly over the back of his neck, silky and gleaming. Long. Too long for a man, but gorgeous all the same. His brother’s soft eyes and hard frame. His dimpled smile. His brother’s mouth, wet and warm against his own. _Motherfucking stop it!_

Dean yanks his hand away from Smith’s aching erection as punishment, then immediately lets out a broken sound at the miserable lack of friction. He can’t. He’s not strong enough. Maybe…? Maybe if he’s only _thinking_ about Sam, then it isn’t as bad as actually touching him. Right? If he gets it all out now, then there’ll be nothing left to tempt him with. It sounds like a reasonable solution to his lust-addled mind, and Dean spares a second to wonder if that’s a human thing too.

And if Sam is going to be making unscheduled appearances during Dean’s ‘me time’, then he’s gonna at least do his best to think about him as he was before. It only seems right, after all. Dean closes his eyes again and drifts, jacks his cock in a slower, easier rhythm. Lets himself imagine the play of the light spectrum against his brother’s wavelength, cutting rainbows into the air around them. The hot intensity of his grace, blending into Dean’s own wherever they touched. The spread of his wingspan, elegant and powerful.

Each repeated rasp of his fist against Smith’s sensitive skin sends a warm curl of arousal coiling in his belly, but despite his insistence on discipline, Dean can’t seem to completely stop his thoughts from creeping over to Sam’s _vessel_. The tilted fox eyes. The remarkable display of hard musculature, rippling across his body every time he moves. His obscenely large hands. Dean tightens his grip. Strokes harder. _Faster_. The wet sounds of pre-come and flesh. Sharp scent of bitter salt and sweat in the air. The soft fall of his brother’s hair. Wesson’s shampoo smells like mangoes, and Dean is already so conditioned to the scent—all wordplay aside—that he’d once popped a stiffy while dropping in on Cas doing his grocery shopping. Luckily the fruit and vegetable aisle was mostly deserted at the time, but _still_. It’s the principle of the thing.

He thinks about Sam’s voice, warm and whispery. Strokes harder. Tightens further. Masculine, but still gentle somehow. Dean thinks about _wind chimes_ and comes so hard and so suddenly that he can’t breathe, spurting gleaming pulses of ejaculate up over his chest with a strangled, drawn-out groan, and every muscle in his body violently clenching in unison like the very air is being forced out of his lungs along with his release. Dean struggles to pull in a gasp, fights past the white light blazing at the edges of his vision, and then finally collapses back against the bed with an incredulous exhale.

Holy fuck.

That was— He blinks dazedly at the room’s yellowed, popcorn ceiling and lets the swirling stars pass in front of his eyes. That was fucking _incredible_.

Dean lets out another sated breath and luxuriates in the aftermath of his pleasure, lassitude saturating his limbs and leaving him with a warm tingly feeling spreading throughout every one of his nerve endings. He lets a dopey grin crawl across his face and glances down at the ridiculous, human mess he’s made of himself. Then his brain comes just the slightest bit back online. He remembers the whole point to this evening’s initial experimentation. Lets it come back to him in fits and starts. In fragmented, disjointed bits and pieces. Dean remembers everything he’d been trying to accomplish. Forget Sam completely. Replace the source of his frustrations so that he wouldn’t be spending any more time thinking about having sex with his brother. Then Dean glances down at himself again and remembers everything that had ended up happening instead.

Well, _shit_.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Fleetwood Mac's "The Way I Feel"


End file.
